So, I don't have cancer.

Written before I received the biopsy results:

"I'm only 34," I keep telling myself. "I cannot have cancer. The odds are in my favor."

Two of these statements are fact, and one is a hope. Regardless, I am currently awaiting the results of a biopsy; a biopsy in which they are only checking for one thing: cancer. The odds are, I will receive a call next week with good news. Unfortunately, there's no guarantee that the odds are in my favor.

One morning I woke up and it was there. As I rose from the bed to go take a shower on your typical work-day morning, I scratched an itch or just happened to place my hand in the right spot and BAM. What is that? I watched it for a month, hoping that it would change with the tide that is the hormonal cycle of every woman, which can and does affect bumps and nodules in the breast. It remained the same through one month, and so I made an appointment.

"I'm sure it's nothing," my OB said. "I wouldn't have even noticed it." However, because I had, and because she could, off I went to ultrasound to make sure. I might get a mammogram, but maybe not if they can confirm that it's nothing.

And so I entered the ultrasound, hoping that they would call me silly and tell me not to worry with such things. After consulting with the radiologist, the tech returned to tell me that I was, in fact, receiving my first mammogram that day. "Just to be sure."

The tests ended up showing nothing. Absolutely nothing. I received a letter in the mail stating that I did not have cancer, but that I should follow up with my OB. "Mammograms are only 90% accurate." I just thought they were including CYA language for their own benefit. I'm a lawyer, and I know that no one wants to guarantee that you have nothing. You're just opening the door, asking for a lawsuit if you do. So, back to the OB for a consult.

Again, certain it was nothing, she ordered me off to a surgeon to confirm her thoughts. "It's just that it's different, and you noticed it, so I'd feel better having it checked out." I agreed. Who wants to mess around with cysts? Not I.

And so I started the appointment that is the genesis of every cancer journey. The walk to the surgeon's office with your mammogram in tow. The awkward "Nice to meet you, here's my boob" dance of your first meeting with a doctor who is not that much older than you and who happens to know many partners at your law firm. "Great," I kept thinking. "I hope I don't see this guy around the office."

And then, there it was. Using the little ultrasound wand that worked so beautifully on my belly when pregnant, he uncovered the stupid little knot that had not yet shown its face in any other test. It was a black hole in the middle of white tissue, and it was frightening.

"Well, there it is. I don't know why they didn't see it before. It's a lesion. It might be a group of cysts. How about I go in there and do a needle biopsy?" Surgeons have such a way with words.

This was way too much information to take in with one sitting. With my eyes wide and my heart picking up its pace, I said, "Sure, if that's what you think you should do."

Up I went on the examination table that transformed from a chair into an uncomfortable wide-L shape, extending me about 4 feet off the floor. A small prick and I was numb, watching him gouge me with a tiny needle while holding my "lesion" in view with the wand. "It's really tough," he said. "I'm not getting much." I peaked at the needle and noticed a small amount of yellow goo at the bottom of the syringe. Not liquid. Kind of mushy.

Shit. I was hoping for one of those clear-fluid-filled-cysts-so-clear-that-you-know-it's-not-cancer-because-the-cyst-disappears-when-you-drain-it-cysts, but mine was not. Mine was a lesion, a name which made me squirm all by itself. And mine was solid and mine was barely giving anything up. "I'll send it off to the lab," he said. "What's the best place to call you? We should follow up in three months."

Shit. It's really the only word that came to my mind. It's my fall-back curse word when something really bad happens - when I almost miss a deadline or when I almost get in a car accident or when I fall down the stairs (it's only happened once (or thrice - I have fallen twice going up)). I heard his words, but all I could think was, "Shit."

Why would he need to follow up if this is nothing? Why is it not liquid if this is nothing? Why is this sounding less and less like nothing? No one in my family has breast cancer. Only my grandmother - and hers was post-menopause. And she smoked for fifty years or something like that. This can't be. This is nothing. I'm being silly. Shit.

I cried in the car when I told Mark about the appointment. I just had to let the stress out. My OB was convinced (95% sure) that it was nothing, so it has to be nothing. But it might not be. Every cancer journey begins with a needle biopsy. Couldn't I be on the same journey without knowing it at this point? Yes. The answer is yes. It is possible.

And so I wait. And so I appreciate Anna's laugh a little more, and I keep secrets from those who would worry most, hoping that in the end I will tell them something like this: "Mom, I didn't tell you this because I didn't want to freak you out, but I had a biopsy last week. It turns out it's nothing, but they wanted to be sure. I now know the importance of monthly self-examinations!"

My name is Jaime, and I am praying for nothing.

Biopsy results today, "Everything is fine," said the nurse. I replied, "That's great. Do I still have to follow up?" She answered, "Yes."

I don't have cancer, but I am a woman, and I am entering a totally new phase of life. Worries like partnership track or fertility are nothing compared to life and death. And so, I live. And so, I am thankful.

I passed a fatal traffic accident on the way to work this past week. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, and none of us are guaranteed a seat at our kid's high school graduation. Enjoy what you have now and make the most of it. As for the future, all we can do is hope for the best.

Testing...one, two, three, four?

For every fertility-challenged woman out there, her time is broken down into four weeks.

Week 1: This includes day 1 and hence confirmation that you are NOT pregnant. Before I had the toddler I used this week to drink wine and complain and cry out all of my frustration. Now that I have a kid and the frustration is diluted, I use this week to "stay positive" and regroup and re-strategize. This makes no sense to most of you, but there are about 1,000 blogs out there giving you new tips on what to eat, what not to eat, what to drink and not drink, what vitamins to take, etc. I review some of these during week 1, peruse my Fertility Diet Book (that I have yet to strictly follow - she has this whole thing against potatoes that confounds me; have you ever heard of the Irish having problems with fertility?), and promise to work out more and eat better.

Week 2: This is the big ovulation week. This week entails taking an ovulation kit with you to work so that you can test mid-day, (when it works best, how convenient!) wait for the day in which the smiley-face appears (which will tell you your the best 2-3 days) and, well, you know.

Week 3: This is the week where I tell myself that I'm probably not pregnant, but that I could be, and so I won't drink wine and I'll lay off caffeine. I only cheat if I go to O'Henry's, and it doesn't really count if good coffee is involved.

Week 4: Could I? Couldn't I? Should I test beforehand? What if I get a false negative? What if I'm pregnant now? (This question entails a visit to babycenter.com to check due dates, fantasize about what a November, December, January due date would be like, etc.). These questions will often lead to: When would I tell people? How would I tell people? (I already have this set for parents and in-laws, which will be really fun if it EVER happens. The best laid plans...).

And so, here I am, stuck in the middle of week 4, having the "should I test or shouldn't I test" debate.

The options:

To test: This is kind of like ripping off the band aid. You go ahead and take the test, and for 3 minutes all of your hopes and dreams bubble into your heart and you wait with bated breath to see the outcome. When the eventual negative result is revealed, you tell yourself that it wasn't meant to be and that you'd rather have a nice Thanksgiving anyways, and whatever other stupid reason you can come up with as to why you're not that disappointed.

Not to test: This leaves you wondering for days (sometimes SEVERAL days if you are not a dependable 28-day gal, which I am not) wondering ifs or if nots at any point in the day when you're not busy. I sometimes find myself surprised that I haven't thought about it in a few hours, only to lead to more thinking. Then, mother nature taps you on the shoulder and says, "Why dear, you're not pregnant after all. Now, let's get on with your day and start week 1 again, okay? Stay positive! Regroup! Re-strategize! You're just 34. You have plenty of time left."

My name is Jaime, and I hate week 4 most of all.